The Wanderings of Bartholomew: The Tale of a Very Small Animal
by Rose and Psyche
Summary: Being the Account of the Squirrel, Bartholomew Nutty, and how he came to understand that even Small Animals can be Useful to Great Kings. Merry Christmas to All!
1. Bartholomew is Blown Away

Dedicated to Ghostwriter71 in hopes that he will find it Cheering.

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><p>Bartholomew is Blown Away<p>

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><p><em>It's a dangerous business…going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to.<em>

~ J.R.R. Tolkien

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><p>"It's an odd year and no mistake," Mrs Nutty commented as the rain raced past the small window set high in the wall. "Too warm for my liking, it is. It ought to be cold and nippy for tail and toes and we ought to be throwing snow at each other, not-" and she glanced derisively at the pot standing in the middle of the floor catching drips, "trying to keep the rain out from where it don't belong."<p>

Bartholomew snuggled deeper into his fluffed red tail. This damp cold was far worse than any deep, dry cold of midwinter. The snow that had fallen the week before had turned to slush and it had been alternately raining and sleeting ever since. The rain was rushing down now, and they could hear the steady roar of the Great River, overflowing its banks, almost flooding as high as the foot of the Nutty tree.

"A poor way to spend Christmas, I always say," Mr Nutty commented, drawing deeply on the stem of his acorn pipe. "Not enough heat to keep body and soul together, I'm thinkin'."

Bartholomew agreed and shivered when a drop of water, finding its way through a hole in the rough bark of the tree, landed cold and unwanted on his shoulders and trickled down the fur on his little, huddled back. He shivered again. He didn't have the girth of his mother, nor the height of his father, being the very youngest and smallest of fourteen. The oldest seven Nuttys, had already gone off and gotten married and started families of their own in other trees along the edge of the River, but the younger seven still lived with Mr and Mrs Nutty.

It was always hard being the youngest…and the runt. He never did anything particularly useful, as he chilled easily and his mother was always keeping him inside to turn the roasting chestnuts over the fire. His older brothers were the really rash and brave ones. To watch them leap through the trees! Why, it would make any squirrel heart beat a little faster! Bartholomew was not immune to the excitement, but he could only content himself with watching.

"Aye lad," his father would say, "But it's not yer fault you can't go dashing about with the others. Wait 'till thou's a bit larger, boy. It's nobbut a few years ahead."

In the meantime, Bartholomew had to be content with being 'Bart', and 'Mew' when the others thought he was looking particularly scrawny. It was 'Bart, get yon muffler' and 'Bart, don't fo'get to close the door behin' us," and sometimes, "Mew, stop shivering, you're givin' me the chills'.

And Bartholomew gritted his teeth and dealt with it. What else could he do, after all? His sisters and brothers weren't bad sorts, when all was said and done. They were just a bit…well…you know.

They were country squirrels, the Nuttys and never wished to be anything else, but sometimes, on long afternoons in front of the fire when Mr Nutty was reading _The Adventures of Moonwood the Hare_ aloud, Bartholomew dreamed of greater things. His father's reading voice left much to be desired, as the elder Mr Nutty charged clear through periods and often came to full stops in the middle of sentences; it was no wonder Bartholomew's mind sometimes wandered.

Bartholomew dreamed of travel. He knew very well that he was too little and insignificant to do great deeds, but he thought, with any luck, he might be able to see things without being noticed. On lazy summer afternoons, he would sit on his special tree branch and watch the wherries and barges going down river to River's Mouth, quainted by River Otters who sang wild and seaworthy songs as they carried cargos bound for blue water.

And down at River's Mouth, there was the city of Paravel and up on the hill (and Bartholomew's little heart raced at the thought of it) stood Cair Paravel, like a great lady, he was told, high up on a cliff beside the sea.

Nobody from those parts had ever seen it, except for old Mr Ignatius, the Barn Owl, who had once flown up to view it from the sky, but had lost his best feathers in a storm that had blown up at that time and had never flown again. The castle was grand and great, he said, his great round eyes reflecting the firelight and rows of little squirrel faces during those nights when the Nutty family came to the old Owl's tree for stories (anything was better than Mr Nutty reading _The Adventures of Moonwood the Hare_).

The question everybody always wanted to ask was whether he had happened to see _Them_, the royalty, the four children who had come along one day and ousted _Her_ and become kings and queens of all Narnia. Ignatius never gave a direct answer on that subject and the Oldest Inhabitants declared that it was because he never got as far as Cair Paravel at all and was making everything up.

But Bartholomew knew better, ever since Old Ignatius had taken him aside one night and breathed in his tufted ear, "I won't tell _them_, _they_ wouldn't understand. But I think _you_ might. You have _that_ look about you."

Bartholomew stared up at him with wide and wondering eyes as the old owl continued his narrative.

"I did see them," Ignatius said in a soft, haunting voice. "All of them. When I came down all hurt and defeathered in a tree outside a window, that one with the gentle hands and the one with the golden hair reached out and took me inside."

Bartholomew stared with bulging eyes, "What happened next?" he breathed.

"They took care of me, they nursed me and fed me…on…on…warm milk…" the old Owl's eyes were growing misty, "and they stroked me…just here…under my chin."

To be rescued by _Them_, to be fed on warm milk, to be stroked…here…he almost couldn't imagine the wonder of it. The others could scoff at the Old Owl all they wanted, but Bartholomew never would. He _knew. _

~o*o~

The rain let up the next day, followed by a period of unusually warm, sunny weather and as Bartholomew dashed in and out of the tree through the afternoon of Christmas Eve, dark clouds were piling higher and higher in the East, like great piles of soot, constantly blowing into new and fantastic shapes.

"Dirty weather coming and no mistake," the Oldest Inhabitants commented when asked for their opinions. "Rain, hard rain and flooding, maybe. Batten down your hatches tonight. Stay low."

With these words of wisdom ringing in their ears, the Nutty family rushed to be ready. The windows were made fast, firewood was piled up, and the old hurricane lantern was found among the rafters and filled with oil in case of emergency. Mrs Nutty cooked a special dinner of chestnuts, stuffed with leftover walnuts, drowned in a hazelnut gravy. Bartholomew's nose twitched at the wonderful smell rising from the oven that sat with its cover tight on, buried among the coals.

Outside, the wind came first, rushing up the River and making the branches of the Tree creek and groan. There was a moment of silence and the Nuttys all stared at each other as the trunk shivered. It was certainly not a night for squirrels to be at large.

The rain came next, coming all at once, not slowly, to pound like mad against the door and windows. The sharp 'ping, ping, ping' of rainwater dripping into the pot in the middle of the floor turned into a steady stream. Bartholomew wrapped himself up in his tail and was glad he was indoors…and fortunately the rain was too loud for Mr Nutty to suggest reading aloud.

They ate their dinner and did not enjoy as much as they thought they would. The wind seemed to be coming harder and harder and the rain was almost a single sheet rushing past the windows, not separate drops. Often times, the talking would simply fade away as they felt the Tree sway in a particularly brutal gust.

"Not so fair a Christmas Eve," Mr Nutty commented in a lull and the rest agreed.

"It's a gale and a half," he added a moment later when the wind came again, redoubling its pummelling against the Tree.

And then, _It_ happened.

The old door, straining at its hinges in the powerful buffeting, finally gave up. It burst open, letting in the stampeding wind. Squirrels went everywhere in a flurry of tails. Good roast chestnut was blown about and ruined. The fire was snuffed out as if it were a candle.

But in the last of the firelight, Mrs Nutty had seen Bartholomew rushing towards the door to close it again.

"Stop him! Stop him! He's too little!" she shrieked.

Those were the last words Bartholomew heard. One moment, he had both paws on the door handle, trying to pull it closed, the next moment, he was blowing out like a flag into the black, rain soaked night. He held on with all his might to the door handle as the door flapped in the wind and flapped him too; he knew very well that if he let go, he would be whisked away by the hurricane and landed he knew not where. Yet he could not hold on. His paws were slipping.

He let go.

He always wondered afterwards if he had held on a moment longer, his strong brothers and his father might have got him by the scruff of his neck and pulled him back in, but he simply couldn't hold on any longer and by the time his father and brothers had reached the door, and his mother had lit the hurricane lantern, Bartholomew Nutty was blowing like a bit of thistledown over the Great River.

~o*o~

When he first blew out into the night, raw terror gripped Bartholomew by the heart and wouldn't let go. He was so afraid, he thought he might expire before anything terrible really did happen. He had a terrible fear of the wind, a terrible fear of the rain and an even more terrible fear of the blackness of the Great River that ran rushing away towards the sea below him, all breaking with white foamed caps and rushing with wreckage from a bridge that had been swept away up river.

But when minute after minute passed and the wind blew him on without much inclination to put him down, Bartholomew began to feel a strange excitement. Where would it end? What grand and wonderful places would he see? He tried not to think of the black water below him as he rushed along in the howling wind; he tried to think only of how the others would praise him when he came back, a wanderer from Far Away.

He had only been to a printer's shop once, at Watersmeet, where he had seen the sticky black inch rolled onto the type and the great press come groaning down with enough force to crush Squirrels without even noticing. How grand those books lined up in the glass window had looked, with covers imprinted with gold scrolls and writing; how wonderful it would be to write a book himself. He could see it now, black print swimming before his eyes, _The Wanderings of Bartholomew: The Tale of a Very Small Animal. _

But even the warmth of these happy thoughts was not enough to keep out the cold of the wind and Bartholomew's teeth were chattering uncontrollably. Something even worse was happening. The wind was lessoning and looking down, he saw that he was very much closer to those terrible black waves than he had been. In a moment he would be in them. He knew it.

At long last, the tiring wind dropped him. He fell, spiralling in the air for a moment, before the angry waves reached up to grab him. It was black…all black. Water was getting up his nose…his fur was slick to his body…he couldn't tell which way was up. There was a terrible moment when two waves seemed to be tossing him back and forth like a ball, then he washed against something solid.

It was wood, spinning in the flood; with the last of his strength, he got his claws into it and scrambled up its slimy surface to plaster himself against it like a bit of damp fuzz. Then he let himself faint from terror.

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><p>To Be Continued...<p>

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> We seem to have written a fair number of Christmas stories. There's _East of the Sun and West of the Moon, _and _I'll be Home for Christmas, The Unbroken Song_, and now this one. Even _The Once and Future King_ has Christmas bits in it. I really think that when all is said and done, these Christmas ones are my favorites; they're more meaningful for one thing and we hope even this one packs a punch before the end.

As many of you probably know, I love writing about animals. We grew up on Beatrix Potter, loved the Mistmantle Chronicles to death, and more recently became addicted to Richard Peck's books, _The Mouse with the Question Mark Tail_, and _Secrets at Sea_, as well as Stephen Lawhead's _Riverbank_ Series. I don't go in for his fantastical epics, like Rose, but I love it when he writes about ducks, voles and hedgehogs. ;)

Anyway, we hope you enjoy it. Merry Christmas from both of us!

~Psyche and Rose


	2. Bartholomew is Rescued

Bartholomew is Rescued

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><p><em>Kindness is the language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see.<em>

~ Mark Twain

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><p>He opened swollen and cold eyes to a dull, damp morning. The river rushing on all around him was dull and grey, with bits of white foam. It was very Wet.<p>

"It's Christmas," he told himself dully, looking up to see clumps of damp snow coming slowly down out of the sky. Spiralling.

The riverbank didn't look at all familiar. The reeds were different and the waves were higher. The River was far wider than he was used to; it seemed more like a Lake, or an Ocean than a River. Windmills standing up the bank were frozen over with ice and glittering with many colours like leaded glass. He saw a River Otter up the bank, testing the depth of the River with a long pole, but Bartholomew couldn't shout or wave and a moment later was swept by. He closed his eyes again. He was quite certain he was about to die of cold. He couldn't feel any bits of him at all. Even his tail was Numb.

Bartholomew wondered how close to River's Mouth he was. He didn't worry over much about being swept out to sea, because the tide would be turning soon and the ebb would take him back up River again, but perhaps at River's Mouth an Otter or a Beaver or some other helpful Animal might see him and fish him out.

Time passed. Each second seemed to stretch out like a bit of rubber until it could stretch no longer and snapped. There were voices. Bartholomew thought for a moment he was back at home. He was certain if he opened his eyes he would see his mother stirring the fire. Perhaps it was the drip in the roof that was making him so cold and wet.

Something was creaking. Oarlocks. There was the dribbling from the blade of an oar, the soft chortle of water being cut by a boat's stem. Someone was talking.

"What's all _this_ wreckage? This isn't more of the boat builder's shed."

"The Watersmeet Bridge was swept away last night."

"Anyone hurt?" the first voice replied between strokes of his oars.

"Don't know yet. There were a lot fewer lost last night than we thought there would be."

"Boats out everywhere looking for survivors," the voice at the oars said.

Desperately, Bartholomew wanted to open his eyes, to wave, to shout. Somehow he couldn't. He was stuck there, plastered against his piece of wood. His paws had lost all ability to do anything but cling. The steady creak of the oarlocks was growing gradually further away.

"I say, Pete; look over there," the second voice rang clearly across the water. "Do you see something…on that log? It looks like a bit of fur."

There was the sound of a backwatering oar, "We'll go see."

"Pull right, pull right," the other voice directed a moment later, "You're almost on top of it."

"Can you reach it?" the voice at the oars asked. "Never mind, I'm closer…Lion's Mane, the water's freezing!"

With a final struggle, Bartholomew opened his eyes. He saw the tall green and blue painted prow of a rowboat, scrolled over with golden leaves. A few feet away, the white blade of an oar hovered above the water, dripping ice water back into the River. A moment later, a huge, work-hardened hand descended and closed around him.

"Good heavens! It's a squirrel!" a voice exclaimed.

"Is he still alive?"

"No…wait…yes, I believe he is. Soaked and frozen, but I believe he is," the first voice replied. "Have you got a clean handkerchief?"

Bartholomew opened his eyes again, long enough to see that he was being turned this way and that, gently mopped with something large and white with lace around the edges.

"Not as soaked as he was. I'm going to put him in my pocket until we get back."

"Right. Change places with me and let me get at those oars. I think you've had your share of rowing."

~o*o~

It was warm in that pocket. So warm it hurt. As feeling started to return to his frozen limbs, Bartholomew realized that he was jumbled up with a lot of other things…a ball of string, a large clasp knife with a marlin spike, and, partially wrapped up in waxed paper, lump of toffee. He allowed himself to nibble the edge of it, just to see what it was like.

The voices that were conversing back and forth over his head were the voices of two men, little more than boys. He'd had a glimpse of them just before he'd entered the pocket. They were rowing fit to bust against the tide.

"Look here," the owner of his pocket said. "I'll stay rowing stroke, you get out the other pair of oars and row in the bows. We'll get back twice as fast that way."

There was a lot of clattering as another set of white painted oars were worked out from under the thwarts and set into the oarlocks. There was a splash as a blade accidentally hit the water.

"Ready?"

"Yes."

"Give way."

They started rowing again, in time. There was the rhythmic sound of the oars, the gurgle of the bow cutting the water, the 'squeak, squeak' of a badly oiled rowlock. One of the rowers was counting time under his breath, "one, two, one, two."

"What's that?"

"Where?"

"On the bank, waving."

There was a moment of silence.

"I think it's Peridan," the rower in the bows said dismally. "Su must have sent him out when we escaped."

"Well, let's go see what he wants," the stroke rower said. "We can bring her alongside that staithe and tie up."

The rowing changed sound. Some strokes were harder than others….there was the rush and gurgle of backwatering, then the oars were lifted for the last time as the boat bumped gently against wood. Running footsteps were echoing hollowly.

"Here, catch!"

A rope was thrown and thumped on wood.

"All fast," a new voice said from above.

"Hullo, Peridan, what's doing?" the owner of the pocket and former stroke rower asked; Bartholomew bounced off the clasp knife as he stood up. The boat was swaying this way and that and Bartholomew wondered if this was what it was like to be seasick. He took another bite of the toffee to fortify himself. He felt he deserved it.

"Your sister missed you," the new voice said. "I told her you were all right, but she wouldn't listen."

"That's Susie for you," the bow rower said.

There was a tremendous jostle as the owner of the pocket clambered up on the staithe. "She'll be all right there," he said, referring to the rowboat. "She's a Cair Paravel boat, no one will touch her."

At the name, Bartholomew shivered with excitement. These people, then, were from Cair Paravel. He had been rescued by royal staff…people who might have seen _Them! _He took another frantic bite of toffee to keep his teeth from chattering.

"Where are your horses?" the one called Peridan asked.

"Livery stable. Too cold to leave them out in weather like this."

"It's pretty cold," the other agreed, stamping his feet.

"Hang in there, Ed."

Ed and Pete. Pete and Ed. Those were their names. Bartholomew had a foggy memory of the one with the pocket being called Pete by the other one. He wondered again who they were.

"Any more word on survivors?" Pete asked.

"There was a family of Beavers washed away at Watersmeet, but the last one was just found," Peridan replied. "There is a small Squirrel reported lost from Oak's Edge."

"A squirrel, did you say?" a large hand closed momentarily over the pocket. "We might have him. Wait until we get back. It's too cold to bring him out now."

After a lot of walking, there was the creek of large doors swinging open, and a new, terrible sound echoed. In raw terror, Bartholomew poked his head out for a moment to see a Massive Beast standing in a large box stall. Its head swung around like the limb of a Tree and there seemed to be hair growing in great tufts all over it. Horse. Had to be.

Bartholomew dropped back down into the pocket, trying to calm his frantically beating heart. The toffee was almost gone.

He listened to the ringing of iron shoes, the sound of a pigs' bristle brush being run once over a large gleaming body, the creak and groan of saddle leather. He peeked out once again to see the horse's head all covered over with thin bits of leather attached to a large metal bit. The next moment, his person was _climbing_, yes, even now, _swinging_ onto the horse…miles and miles off the ground. Bartholomew's stomach dropped out of him. Naturally, he wasn't afraid of heights, but being _that_ far off the ground in a pocket was…unsettling

I won't describe the ride. It was rather hard on poor Bartholomew to be tossed this way and that, forever arguing with the clasp knife over who was to be where. The string was beginning to unwind and settle in loops all over him. The toffee was gone.

He peeked out once to see they were on a road winding up a steep hill overlooking the sea. It was the great Eastern Sea spreading out in all directions with no end in sight. Bartholomew was used to seeing banks on either side of any water and this great flat piece of sea was terrifying. There was only a bank on one side, the rest of it just kept on.

"Hello," a large voice said once when Pete noticed his head sticking out of the pocket. Bartholomew was so terrified that he dove back in and didn't come out again.

"That squirrel," Pete was calling. "He's been moving around like anything. I do believe he's going to be all right."

Bartholomew listened at the change of sound under the horse's hooves. They were galloping over cobbles now, there was an echoing of stone walls and a voice shouted, "stand and be recognized!" and when the horses came to a snorting, stamping halt, added, "Good morning and joy be with you!"

A second later, the horses were clopping forward again. There was the creaking sound of a heavily laden cart and the ring of much larger hooves than those of the riding horses. A greeting was exchanged, someone cried, "Merry Christmas!"

"Bringing food down to Watersmeet like you said, sir, so those folk can still have Christmas, despite the storm."

"Good work!" Pete called.

It was only a few moments later that the horses came to a halt and the travellers were dismounting. There was shouting, the sound of running feet. Someone called, "Careful, Susie, there's ice there!"

"Peter, Edmund! Where have you been!?" a worried lady's voice cried. "You've been gone all night!"

"Looking at the damage," Pete said. "We couldn't stay cosy in a castle with all that was happening."

"Well, I wish you had," the lady said. "Lucy and I have been worrying."

"_I _wasn't worried," another lady's voice said.

"It's a good thing we went," Ed said. "We made a rescue."

"What?"

"No, we won't show you out here. Let's go inside."

Bartholomew huddled at the bottom of his pocket. His fate was nigh. A moment more and he would be thrust out into the light and shown to everyone. The idea was frightening.

"Edmund," the worried lady said. "Don't crack your knuckles. It's not good for them."

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><p><strong>One Chapter to Go...<strong>

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><p>Author's Note: I think our squirrels may be a bit smaller than C. S. Lewis might have intended, but I know squirrels in cities where I am can be mistaken for cats at a distance. Perhaps, because mice are so much smaller, they grew quite a bit more than squirrels. After all, all the larger things became a bit smaller and all the smaller things became a bit larger. And Bartholomew is a very small squirrel...and it must be understood that he is in a very large pocket.<p>

~Psyche


	3. Bartholomew Does Something Rather Grand

Bartholomew Does Something Rather Grand

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><p><em>Bravery is being the only one who knows you're afraid.<em>

~ Franklin P. Jones

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><p>"A rescue, you said?" it was the golden voice of the calm lady speaking. A massive wooden door had been opened and closed and the sound of boot heels echoed off stone to rebound in a very large space. Bartholomew could tell from the way the voices were ringing that they were in a prodigious great room.<p>

"A squirrel," Pete said.

Bartholomew hunched as a large hand reached into the pocket and great strong fingers closed around his little furry body. He didn't bite…but he wanted to. He began to rise…then stuck.

"Oh hang it," Pete said. "I went and put him in the pocket with the string and he's gotten himself all tangled up in it."

A moment later, Bartholomew Nutty was pulled into the light, string and all. He stared with great eyes as he stood with as much dignity as he could muster on the palm of that very large hand. He clutched his tail.

Massive people stood around him; a lady with golden hair was already untangling the string from around his paws, another lady with very dark hair had put a hand to her mouth and saw staring back at him with adoring eyes, a brown haired man with kind eyes stood to the side and Bartholomew knew he must be Peridan. Ed was there too, looking at him with amusement twitching the corner of his mouth.

And all around the people was the room…it was such a massive and large room that at first Bartholomew thought it was outdoors; the gilded ceiling seemed as high as the sky and a great glittering staircase came down from a higher storey like a waterfall. The woodwork all around was so cleverly carved that he might be forgiven for at first thinking he was in a forest grove.

"Good morning, friend, and how are you?" It was Ed speaking, leaning down a little to be on the same level. Bartholomew looked up into his clear blue eyes and realized with a jolt that Ed was addressing him.

"V-v-very good…s-sir," Bartholomew clutched his tail even harder. He had never spoken to a Man before.

"What is your name, young one?" Pete asked. "Are you the missing Squirrel washed away from Oak's Edge last night?"

"I'm B-b-bartholomew N-n-nutty, if you please…sir…and that was me…I blew away in the night."

"Oh, poor little dear! How dreadfully your family must be worried!" this was the dark haired lady, who had been worried herself before. The golden haired lady's voice was golden, but hers was silver. She held out her cupped hands to Bartholomew and after a hesitation, he stepped into them. They were cold…but somehow he didn't mind. They were gentle.

"You must be nearly dead from exhaustion…and being carried around in a pocket, too," she glanced up at Pete with reproach. Bartholomew fancied he saw a resemblance.

"There wasn't really anywhere else to put him," Pete said defensively. "And he's safe and sound now."

"I'd have done the same, Su," Ed added.

"We'll have to set him up with a good dinner, anyway," the golden haired lady said, holding out a hand for Bartholomew. Obediently he scampered up her arm and settled on her shoulder. Her hand had been warm. "I'll find someone to take care of him. And remember, it's Christmas. We haven't even finished decorating the tree."

"I have some work to finish, first," Pete said.

"So have I," Ed added. "Spending reports."

And with that, they all took their leave, wishing Bartholomew, especially, a Good Morning. Bartholomew watched them go, listening as their voices grew gradually fainter.

"Funny," he heard Pete's voice echoing down a corridor off the great entrance hall. "I thought I still had a bit of toffee left."

A few minutes more, and Bartholomew was alone with the golden haired lady, riding her shoulder down sunlit corridors to look out jack-frosted windows at a freezing world outside. _This_ was what squirrels were meant to do, he quickly decided. From up here, he had a human eye's view on the world; he could look people in the eye at their own level. It made his heart beat a little faster. The whole time, Lucy talked, saying what door went where, and telling about how someone named Prince Corin had slid down those stairs on a tea tray and how someone else (Bartholomew thought she might have said 'Ed') had knocked a ball through that window by accident.

Presently, he perceived from his exalted position that a small squirrel, near his own size, was coming swiftly down the corridor towards them. It was a She-Squirrel, Bartholomew saw, and a very Pretty one. His heart thundered against his ribs when Lucy stopped her.

"Are you in a particular hurry?" she asked.

"I'm only bringing a message to Queen Susan from the Head Cook about the geese. She thinks she'll have enough after all."

"I'll tell her," Lucy said. "Meanwhile, I'd like you to take our young friend, Bartholomew, to a warm dinner."

Almost before he knew what was happening, Bartholomew was standing on the floor next to the other Squirrel. He was almost jealous…this young Squirrel of about his own age and size, was wearing dark green livery with the letters 'CP' embroidered in gold.

"Thank you, and good bye, Bartholomew," Lucy said, starting back down the corridor. "See that he has a room."

"Consider it done, your majesty," the She-Squirrel said importantly.

Bartholomew's head suddenly whirled…

"What did you call her?" he gasped.

"Your majesty…" the She-Squirrel replied in a puzzled voice. "What else should I call Queen Lucy?"

"_Queen_ Lucy…" Bartholomew considered fainting…but remembered he wasn't alone. It would never do to faint in front of _her._

"And the other people…Pete and Ed and Su…"

"The High King and King Edmund and Queen Susan," the other Squirrel replied. "Really, you are _quite_ stupid."

Bartholomew felt humbled. And the other Squirrel took pity on him.

"My name is Angelique," she said. "And I'm pleased to meet you. Are you the Squirrel that went missing from Oak's Edge?"

"Yes," Bartholomew said.

"You _must_ have had a time," Angelique said with something like envy in her voice. "Well, don't stand there gawking; come along."

Angelique set off at a dash along the shining wood floor. She seemed to have only one speed, which was far too fast for a Squirrel who had just been rescued from death forty-one minutes before. But Bartholomew would never show weakness and he gritted his teeth and kept up as best he could.

But it wasn't long before she came to a halt before a panel, and, when she touched it in a particular place, Bartholomew, to his astonishment, saw it swing suddenly inwards, revealing a squirrel sized passage with a squirrel sized carpet on the floor. Wonderingly, he followed Angelique in.

There were a row of panelled doors to the right with small brass placards on them telling who was inside. Angelique stopped and tapped respectfully at one labelled _Head of the Department of Squirrel Affairs_.

"Come in!" a rather frazzled voice said from inside.

They went in.

It was a squirrel sized room, with a heavy desk at one end beneath a small window that had long ago been covered with snow. On entering, Bartholomew saw the walls lined with squirrel sized bookshelves with all sorts of delectable squirrelish titles…_Of Squirrels and Men, A Tale of Two Squirrels, Squirrel and Peace, Much Ado about Squirrels, Squirrelanger Abbey, Gone with the Squirrel, That Hideous Squirrel_ and a three volume set called _The Lord of the Squirrels_.

"Work, work, work! I'm snowed under with work!" A rather portly Squirrel with a monocle sat at the desk, pulling in exasperation at his ear tufts. He grabbed a handful of papers and threw them in the air. They came fluttering down like snowflakes. "I doubt even the High King himself has as much work as I do! Release forms! Permissions! The Squirrel Choir has run out of funding _just_ before Christmas! I'm going to go mad!"

"I have Bartholomew Nutty, the Squirrel who went missing from Oak's Edge," Angelique informed him. "Queen Lucy said he was to have dinner and a room."

"_More _work!" The monocled Squirrel screamed. "Take him away! Do something with him, just don't bother me with it. I'm _busy! _Good _morning!"_

A moment later, they found themselves back in the corridor staring at a closed door.

"Well!" Angelique said in disgust. "_That's_ what you get for going through the Proper Channels. We'll just figure it ourselves, then."

And quite rudely, she stuck her tongue out at the door.

"What will we do now?" Bartholomew said.

"Take you to a warm dinner and a room," Angelique said. "That's what Queen Lucy directed and that's what I shall do."

~o*o~

After a meal in the squirrel dining hall, Bartholomew was taken to a room of his own. He had never had a room of his own before…in fact, he'd never slept in a bed before, only a pile of heather…and he didn't know what sheets were and had never seen a real embroidered coverlet. There was even a pitcher and washbasin on a stand and a mirror over the dresser.

Bartholomew had never seen a reflection of his own face…sometimes, if the river was very still, he could see a hazy reflection, but it was very faint. As his mother always said, _what you can't see, won't hurt you._

But he couldn't help gazing for a long time at the thin and haggard young Squirrel that stared out from the mirror. He could see quite a lot of his father in that face and some of Aunt Gertie and a second cousin named Mazy. And the longer he looked, the sadder he felt, because this threadbare little Squirrel was so Small and Insignificant. Here he was, tucked away in a little room somewhere in the foundations of this Great and Magnificent castle, run by four magnificent people who were both Great and Just, Brave and Gentle. He could only accept their goodness…he could never repay them. What could he, Bartholomew Nutty, do of the slightest Significance?

And with that rather unhappy thought, he went to bed.

It seemed only a second later that he was woken rudely by whiskers against his face.

"Wake up!" a voice said. "You've been sleeping like a log for five hours! You don't won't to miss the Lighting of the Tree and the Christmas feast, do you?"

Bartholomew opened his eyes to see Angelique looking down at him in dissatisfaction. She had a dripping sponge in one paw. "I've brought you something to wear. I think it's about your size."

And Bartholomew suddenly stopped breathing when he saw what she had over her arm. It was a green velvet doublet with the letters 'CP' worked in gold on the chest. A Palace Squirrel! For at least one night, he would be a Palace Squirrel! He almost couldn't bear the deliciousness of the Thought.

"Well, get up and put it on," Angelique said.

A moment later, the two of them were racing down the corridors again, shoulder to shoulder. Sometimes the corridors went straight up and they had to scamper up walls to get to another story of the castle. Sometimes they passed windows, and once they paused to look out at the courtyard, to see that in the deep freeze of the gathering night, a great sheet of ice had formed and skaters were spinning and dancing, reflected upside-down with the burning torches that flickered gold.

At last, they continued on, and presently the gloom was cut by a blade of light when Angelique opened a little door and stepped out into a massive room.

As Bartholomew followed her, he saw that this was the largest room of all…far larger than the entrance hall…far larger, it seemed, than even Outdoors. He couldn't help wondering if even the sky on a summer day was as high as that great, dark hammerbeam roof. There were creatures everywhere, all sorts of Animals and Centaurs, Fauns and Humans, all talking and laughing…some on the great inlayed floor, some lined up on the balconies, all hanging garlands of gold and green, glimmering with holly and mistletoe and scented with spices.

And in the very middle of the floor stood a Tree.

What a tree it was! It towered in the room, nearly seeming to brush the ceiling with a feathered top, and on all its many branches hung gold and silver, sparkling and beautiful. Even as Bartholomew watched, little birds with lit tapers in their beaks were flying around it, lighting a thousand little candles until that Great Hall seemed to shimmer with ten thousand lights as each light glittered and glittered again off sparkling windows and mirrors.

"It's stupendous, isn't it?" Angelique asked and Bartholomew could only nod. He couldn't speak. It was too wonderful. It seemed to him that just being part of Something so Grand and Beautiful would be enough…even if it was only a very little and insignificant part.

As they went further into the room, they saw that the two kings and the two queens were there, standing looking up at the Tree. They were dressed in magnificent clothes, not the everyday clothes Bartholomew had seen them in before. A great, kingly man stood with them and Angelique said it was King Lune of Archenland and that bright and jolly boy who stood with him was Corin, the Crown Prince. King Edmund had a fiddle and was gently playing a tune Bartholomew had never heard before. Beside him, Queen Susan began to sing, softly at first, but growing in confidence.

_"I," said the donkey, shaggy and brown,_

_"I carried His mother up hill and down;_

_I carried her safely to Bethlehem town."_

_"I," said the donkey, shaggy and brown._

_~o*o~_

_"I," said the cow all white and red_

_"I gave Him my manger for His bed;_

_I gave him my hay to pillow his head."_

_"I," said the cow all white and red._

_~o*o~_

_"I," said the sheep with curly horn,_

_"I gave Him my wool for His blanket warm;_

_He wore my coat on Christmas morn."_

_"I," said the sheep with curly horn._

_~o*o~_

_"I," said the dove from the rafters high,_

_"I cooed Him to sleep so He would not cry;_

_We cooed him to sleep, my mate and I."_

_"I," said the dove from the rafters high._

Bartholomew listened to her beautiful, silvery voice, more lovely, even, than the River on a summer's day. And he thought, _if only I could sing like that_, _perhaps it wouldn't matter that I am a Squirrel of very Small Stature. _And as he stood there, with shining eyes, he realized that Queen Lucy had knelt down next to him.

"Are you feeling better?" she asked.

"Yes, thank you," he said, wondering that she, a Queen, should even speak to him. "I'm sorry I didn't know before that you were Queen Lucy."

Lucy laughed her golden laugh, "Does it matter?"

"It does matter!" Bartholomew cried. "You are Great and Good; all people bow before you and do you homage…I only wish I could do something great to show you how Wonderful you are."

"Ah," Lucy said softly, "And sometimes I wish _I _could do something great to show how wonderful my own Master is. But I cannot, because he is so great and so wonderful, anything I could do would seem like nothing."

"You too?" Bartholomew asked, taking a hold of his tail. "But you can't quite understand how it is to be little and insignificant like me. I am so small and you are so much larger, you can't quite Know what it's like."

"Perhaps not quite," Lucy said leaning closer to him. "But, often times, no matter how Little and Insignificant we are, we found ourselves doing Things far beyond _our_ power. Sometimes it's about being in the right Place at the right Time…sometimes it's something we manage to say, which goes far Deeper than we could ever imagine. You never Know. All that matters is that we are There and Ready. It doesn't matter if we are Small, or Great, only that we are here for such a Time as This."

Bartholomew stared up at her, with shivering heart and wide eyes. Could even he, Bartholomew Nutty, be There and Ready for such a Time as This? It seemed like such a terrible and brave thing, to Wait for the Word even when it was Beyond his Power.

"Just Be," Lucy said, putting a hand on his tiny head before she stood up.

Queen Susan was looking through one of the last boxes of ornaments, before she picked up a rather insignificant box tied up with string. She looked from it, up at the tree, then back again.

"I say, Edmund," she said, and her brother stopped fiddling for a moment. "Someone went and forgot to put the Star up at the very top of the tree."

She opened the box and held the Star up, a thing of filigree gold…shimmering.

"Oh," Edmund said, looking at it. "I wonder how that happened?" He turned, glancing around the room. "Can anyone run it up to the top?"

And a little voice from near his feet said, "I can!" and Bartholomew Nutty, country squirrel, stepped forward to offer his services.

"Good man!" Peter exclaimed.

And in the moments that followed, Bartholomew was tying the Star to his back with a bit of string. They were wishing him Aslan's Speed…then, he was rushing up the branches, mile after mile of glittering ornaments, gold lit candles…glass icicles dashing light. The roof was coming nearer…he saw faces watching him from the balconies.

Then, he was at the very tippy top, clinging, his tail twisting to keep his balance as he untied the Star. With the very last of his strength, he lifted it into place. He could hear cheering from down below and he looked back to see them all so small and insignificant at the base of the tree, looking up at him. He saw Angelique with an expression almost of admiration, he saw the Kings and Queens smiling…and thanking _him_.

And Bartholomew Nutty knew beyond the shadow of a doubt, that even Small Animals can be Useful to Great Kings.

* * *

><p><strong>The End<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> And there it is, the final chapter of the Wanderings of Bartholomew...I hope you enjoyed it! I must say, I am not adverse to furthering Bartholomew's story at some Point in Time. If anyone has any ideas for Adventures that could happen to him, please feel free to let me know. ;) He is _rather_ a Special Squirrel.

Thank you _so_ much for all your Kind Comments!

Merry Christmas from both of us to All of You!

~Rose and Psyche


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